Baker's Dozen
by wouldtheywriteasongforyou
Summary: Collection of thirteen poems counting down to Mel-Mel's birthday. KBOW with a pinch of reality.
1. (birthday cake)

**Author's Note:  
Disclaimer: **

Written for The Poetry Craze Challenge: 100 Prompts "10. happy" ; Crash Course Poetry Term "Class 2: Task 1" ; Crayola Challenge "84. red"

For the melody to my song (MelodyPond77). I'm hoping to write a countdown of three-and-ten poems before your birthday, but I'm a little out of practise with poetry. I hope this isn't shitty...?

9 May 2014. Word Count: not going to bother with it for poetry.

* * *

**Birthday Cake**

Your mummy spent hours baking that cake for you,

the pretty one with the confectioner's sugar sprinkled

on top because she knows you like seeing it

snow during summertime. The cake

is fluffy like a cloud and powdered white

- such a tempting white - waiting for you to

mar its perfection with

a crescent-moon bite.

It's sitting on the table, innocent as can be,

sponging up the sunshine and the oxygen in the air.

It's right there, Katie, right in front of your face. You could

easily grab it and eat the sugar-dusted air pockets.

(What's stopping you?)

Mummy and Daddy float into the room,

one drunk on vanilla and the other on whiskey.

She's still wearing her apron, the one with

the fraying heart stitched upon the sleeve.

"Happy eleventh," she half-sings but her lips are sewn

shut with black thread and your father is the one who's

holding the needle and scissors. "Happy eleventh," Daddy echoes

but his words are slurred and blurred with insincerity. He cuts

and slices with calculated precision,

the dull-edged knife comfortable in his grasp. You watch in

gross fascination as the crumbs ooze and bleed out

of every incision he makes into the cake.

"Red velvet," Mummy explains as the dye stains

the knife blade, coating it with in an oxidized rust.


	2. (eleven)

**Author's Note:  
Disclaimer: **

Written for The Poetry Craze Challenge: 100 Prompts "1. advent" ; Crash Course Poetry Term "Class 2: Task 2" ; Crayola Challenge "112. white"

For the melody to my song (MelodyPond77). I'm hoping to write a countdown of three-and-ten poems before your birthday, but I'm a little out of practise with poetry. Hey, I just met you...and this is crazy. But I wrote you another poem, so like, LOVE IT (maybe).

10 May 2014. Word Count: not going to bother with it for poetry.

* * *

**Eleven**

One and one is eleven

(or maybe it's onety-one) -

you're not really sure because the lines of arithmetic

looks a little like a square nostril stuck

randomly on someone's forehead.

Picasso was always fond of glowing neon signs and looking into the abstract

sky right before he fell headfirst into the concrete of reality.

Do you know what else falls from the sky?

Letters.

Lots of them.

Swirling and soupy and goopy and who knows? After a while the post starts to resemble

bird droppings

little ivory gifts

dripping hot and an ever-present weight staining your shoulder that you cannot remove.

White and dusty bright like the ice crystals you want to see during the summer

in your snow globe world.

You sit patiently by the window, lips curled

up into a red-stained Heath Ledger smile, the cake massacred on the table.

The advent of your birthday - your eleventh one, your

onety-one one, your _happy eleventh_ one -

means a letter from Hogwarts, right?

One with a magic seal and crispy cream parchment

with gold letters dancing across the page.

It's an invitation for you to (finally!) begin your life,

and even though you actually haven't received the letter yet,

you've already RSVP'd

yes.


	3. (bubble dreams)

**Author's Note:  
Disclaimer: **

Written for The Poetry Craze Challenge: 100 Prompts "8. clear" ; Crash Course Poetry Term "Class 2: Task 3"

For the melody to my song (MelodyPond77). I'm hoping to write a countdown of three-and-ten poems before your birthday, but I'm a little out of practise with poetry. Yes, I'm going to keep saying this until all thirteen poems are posted.

11 May 2014. Word Count: not going to bother with it for poetry.

* * *

**Bubble Dreams  
**

Labelling Hogwarts  
simply as a castle is like  
saying the world is merely  
round. There are not enough words  
in the English language to express  
the sensory overload you experienced  
when you stepped off the Hogwarts Express.  
You remember circles, dizzying and endless  
spirals, and spinning off the edge of the globe  
as you twirled in your Hogwarts robes in the  
moment right before you were Sorted. The  
train wheels were in perfect rhythm with  
the shifting gears in your mind,  
and wasn't it lovely to be  
able to see real magic  
for the very  
first  
time?  
.

.

.

.

.

.

.

You hold onto the memory  
and wrap it around  
your finger like it  
is a balloon  
string.  
Don't let it go.

.

But Daddy has scissors in one hand

and a knife in the other. His tongue is a rusty

nail and his Jack Daniels is the hammer. The letter

saved you before the bruises and blows became too much to handle

but there's no escaping Daddy. Mummy tried

(Merlin, it's been so long since that you can hardly remember)

and look where she is now: trapped in his loving embrace,

gutted and pinned, flopping like a fish.

Daddy's cast his line - his right hook is nasty and Mummy's the bait. He was always

proud of you for your thick skin and your bite. _Katie__ will clearly be in Gryffindor,_ he

boasted when the owl came to the house. The Sorting Hat did

throw you into the lion's den despite your protests. You hate it when

Daddy's right.


	4. (beauty)

**Author's Note:  
Disclaimer: **

Written for The Poetry Craze Challenge: 100 Prompts "13. beauty" ; Crayon Colour Challenge "17. brown"

For the melody to my song (MelodyPond77). I'm hoping to write a countdown of three-and-ten poems before your birthday, but I'm a little out of practise with poetry. God, I'm so sorry for gifting you with all of this morbid stuff. I wanted to try the tragic poetic thing, and er, yeah. This happened.

12 May 2014.

* * *

**Beauty  
**

_Brown_  
hair and brown eyes and brown freckles;  
wasn't brown supposed to be synonymous  
with boring?  
Bland and brainless and

_Beautiful_  
(what a brown-noser)

_Hi_  
bright and bursting with life  
with fireworks shining in irises  
dilating the pupils and blooming  
until all you can see is the sparks flying.

_How are you?_  
bobble-head nodding and mumbled responses  
blithe and bemused smiles  
bland and brainless and boring brown.

_Hazel  
_hope and happiness  
heart to heart and eye to eye  
here and now

_Hey._ _What's your name?_  
Bell.

_Beautiful -  
_more like bruised  
a brown banana peeling  
splotches on an apple  
bell  
without the 'e'.

_Ah. A silent 'e'._  
(What does that even mean?)

_He shrugs.__ How am I supposed to know?_  
You like his crooked grin a little more than you should.  
Its squiggly curves remind you of a road map, something that will get you  
lost despite your best intentions.  
(You want to get lost in his hazel latte eyes.)

_Wood, he says._  
Would I what?  
He laughs again, crinkles folding his skin accordion-style.  
He's so happy  
so so happy that it kind of scares you.  
How is it possible for someone to be so happy?

_Be my friend?_  
Happy, happy, happy  
he's over-using the emotion.  
Maybe you should buy some stock  
since it looks like you're going to be investing in it.

_Be my_ _best_ _friend, Bell?  
_Wood is so Gryffindor,  
bold and brave.  
He likes you (or maybe he likes  
the way you hexed a Weasley twin in the Charms  
corridor this morning).

Best friends, you agree  
sometime during the second week of September.  
(You've never had a best friend before.)


	5. (venus)

**Author's Note:  
Disclaimer: **

Written for The Poetry Craze Challenge: 100 Prompts "5. follow"

For the melody to my song (MelodyPond77). I'm hoping to write a countdown of three-and-ten poems before your birthday, but I'm a little out of practise with poetry. And I suck at following a schedule.

14 May 2014.

* * *

**Venus  
**

He teaches you how to fly

with arms wide open and lips inhaling

the star-peppered skies.

He helps you find the fire-escape,

the winding stairs that lead you down the rabbit-hole

and into Wonderland

where Gandalf doppelgangers have tea parties

and broomsticks sweep up the dust of a galaxy from so, so long ago.

.

He shows you how to play chess and stay

one move ahead of your enemies. He's older and so much wiser

but he makes you feel like his equal, too.

He leads and you follow:

he fills up your heart that was once ever so hollow.

.

Wood shows you how to dream

how to let go and conduct your own life.

He waves his magic wand and suddenly everything is all right.

.

You try not to become lost in your delusions;

reality is waiting for the two of you somewhere past the hedges.

He sees your garden of bruises by accident one day

and oh, you're so ashamed!

You cover up your rosy cheeks and violet-splattered legs the best you can

but still, he knows.

.

You try to fly out of his Venus flytrap

but you're caught

stuck

in the folds between his teeth

waiting for him to chew you up and spit you back out.

He asks you what's wrong;

surely he doesn't mean it. Surely he's only being a polite friend. Surely

he doesn't really want to help you.

(People always break their promises

and a few hearts along the way. You don't want to give

Wood such power over you.)

.

You're not afraid to love.

You're just afraid of not being loved.

[-]


	6. (home is not hogwarts)

**Author's Note:  
Disclaimer: **

Written for The Poetry Craze Challenge: 100 Prompts "6. despair"

For the melody to my song (MelodyPond77). I'm hoping to write a countdown of three-and-ten poems before your birthday, but I'm a little out of practise with poetry. I think you can guess that I don't take vitamins because I'm awful at keeping track of one-a-day things.

17 May 2014.

* * *

**Home is Not Hogwarts  
**

"Go to your room, Katie."

No _hello_, no _how wa__s term? -_

No _did you make any friends -_

"Go to your room, now."

Stomp. Sigh. Slam. Scream.

"Come down for dinner, Katie."

No _please _and _thank you_ -

No_ I made your favourite meal -_

"Pass the salt."

Chew. Crunch. Cut. Clean.

"What's on the news, tonight?"

No _how was your day? - _

No _happy holidays -_

"The Dark Lord has been vanquished. How nice of him to disappear."

Break. Babble. Blink. Breathe.

"It's past your bedtime, Katie."

No _kiss goodnight, _no _bedtime story_

No _checking for monsters in the closet_

_please, Daddy, they might be hiding under my bed_.

.

Silly Katie, the monster is the one you call Daddy,

the one you call Mummy.

Silly Katie, the monster is inside of you.

Silly, silly Katie.

(Home is not Hogwarts, much to your despair.)


End file.
